


Mine

by cheguko



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-11-26 05:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18176573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheguko/pseuds/cheguko
Summary: Murdoc Niccals, an eccentric fashion designer, sets himself the task of turning Stuart into one of his best models.





	1. Unconscious

"I've never met someone with such hair." It was everything the old woman felt like saying. Her sunken, opaque eyes examined what they could of the boy, cataracts making everything difficult for her. She was hunched over a disused légumes container, awful, vast cloaks wrapping her in a dusty coat.

The young man processed what he heard.

"I have it this color because of an event from my childhood." Little by little he lost himself in the very image of his hands, the pallor of these consumed by mere dirt as usual. Suddenly annoyed, he wanted to hide them better in his rags. "There was this time I fell from the tree of my old house. I lost all my hair and when it grew back I ended up looking this way."

"You talk a lot of nonsense, child." The lady took a moment to restore herself and say, "What asylum did you say you come from? They got you because of your black eyes, didn't they? You look as horrible as a demon."

Somewhat outraged at the comment, he shivered in dissatisfaction. He wanted to gather more heat so he rubbed his palms at the edge of the fire that emanated from the trash barrel. With his distinguished cockney accent, he said to the very older one, "I am no madman. I feel cold and that is why I borrowed some of your fire. And do not insult my appearance, please."

The listener reaffirmed her bitter frown and closed her eyes, adjusting herself better in place. Her fellow watched those messy gray hairs she had under her frayed shawl.

"I do come from a mental institution. I escaped when I was around fifteen." Sighing, she rested her head against the wall behind, short of breath and with no will to live. "I remember meeting a good man who promised to take care of me for years. Was a military. He died and I turned even more alone and poor than I already was. I hope someday to see him again."

And with a single breath of the wind, she stopped talking in the middle of the story.

Stuart Pot's blood ran cold. His skin that was so dehydrated got lit in full shivers, peeking over his shoulder to the old lady lacking vital signs.

Slowly he abandoned the fire at his mercy. His heart skipped beats in silent shock and only disbelief could consume his thoughts.

He straightened his tattered clothes, ready to turn around and pretend that he had not witnessed any deaths at all. But in seconds he frowned. The woman had just given her last breath and he had been the only one to watch it. It was not right to just run away.

Moaning in discomfort and cold, he pulled back the broken gloves he was wearing to leave them at her feet. He teared up lightly, his bottom lip trembling at all costs.

"Rest in peace," he said softly, moving away from there with a sunken heart.

Little by little, the fire in the barrel went out.

Coming out of that filthy alley, he traveled through paths walked by common people; people with an active life, a cellphone pressed to one shoulder and a wristwatch to their faces. People who reminded him of how he used to be only a few years ago.

Life sucks indeed. But he wanted to go through it all despite being nothing but a helpless boy.

So eager to find a job he was! How amazing it'd be to finally save a few pennies and buy bread, maybe cookies. He missed those sweet flavors that would bring him back to childhood. The kid was only nineteen, for god's sake. But what could he do?

Getting to a certain corner, he stopped. There he spotted a shopping cart, that one full of his own dirty clothes and some recyclable garbage. Nobody had touched it. He exhaled some icy air, rubbing his hands hard. Then he insisted himself on pushing it, starting to cross the street.

With resignation he observed his surroundings. Passersby tended to judge him, strangers that awfully looked at his bad clothing and dirt all over. How much he would love to take a single bath... To finally get some hot water on his exhausted body.

He could only pray for protection. Very, very deep inside, he wished for something to come save him. Someone. It was at the end of the day, at night, when his hopes became silence, and his eyes, wet dirt.

Thirst was eating at him. How could he even find any clear water right in the streets?

Where was he going? He didn't quite know. Only the weight of the trolley railing under his hands accompanied him, the cold breaking through his bones as never before.

Today, instead of being full of life, he longed more than ever for a sudden death. That the hypothermia on the verge of breaking him would take away all his pain in a fast, fatal evolution. Of course he wished too much.

Half an hour had passed and the boy still did not know his own location. Was walking to somewhere safe, or so he believed. The socks on his feet barely warmed him enough. A little while longer and he would not be able to move anymore.

He began to see everything blurry in the middle of the road, blinking with difficulty and trouble. Tried to fight the sleepiness growing. Could not.

Before he knew it, his knees had failed him. Bent he was in front of a car, the cart stopping due to his own painful immobility. In a few seconds he was hunched over on the asphalt, drowning in a loud coughing fit. He wanted help. He wanted to scream! His throat did not respond, it burnt a lot.

Tears filled his vision suddenly, trying to wipe them quickly so as to know his whereabouts and how to get out of there already.

The driver of the car before him, instead of honking, analysed the scene with impression. What was going on there, with that blue-haired mendicant? Was the cold causing him havoc? He needed to drive ahead, had an important meeting right then. Couldn't be late. But that stranger in tatters didn't seem like recovering soon. Frowning, he found that there was no better option than opening the car door and succour him in a rush.

The wind whipped against his face, burning his skin. He shivered and hugged himself, addressing the dying boy.

The man wanted him to get out of his way, and made a great effort to be heard. He screamed to be heard. But, from one moment to another, that young man only passed out before him, all coughing ceasing.

Overwhelmed, Murdoc Niccals took him by the shoulder, disgust assaulting his conscience. It was when he turned the other around that he could finally see his face.

He blinked in surprise, spit a curse word that got lost in the icy blast.

The boy was so divine. Couldn't be left right there in the middle of nowhere.

Quickly, he touched the other's forehead. The temperature perceived resembled snow itself. Praying for his well-being, he swallowed hard. Then rushed to check his neck, looking for the jugular to feel it just shaking. He smiled with vainglory. The kid had his pulse awake.

He did not question shit and started lifting the body off the asphalted ground. Getting a little dirt didn't matter to him anymore.

Advancing on weak steps, he returned to the vehicle waiting for him with the gas still on. With much effort, he opened one of the back doors, leaving the poor boy to rest in the back seats.

Having sighed and refused to attend any scheduled activities, the decision to take care of that person was made. What if he was suffering from hypothermia?

He climbed into his vehicle, moving through the inclement afternoon wind.

The man would constantly spare a glance at the younger's face, such pure pallor making him frown in great commotion. Was he really about to take a complete stranger to his house?


	2. Safe

His whole body felt weak, but thank God there was no more cold.

Where was he? Had he fallen into a coma? No. He could move, could feel his own hands running blindly through a warm flannel. Bedspreads were sheltering him warmly.

A faint smile formed on his face, never bringing himself to open his eyes. Even wanted to moan out of such comfort. Maybe his head ached and his soul was heavy, but he couldn't feel any better.

His breathing broke down. Under whose care was he?

Squeezing his eyelids and feeling tears of vulnerability piling up at the top of his cheeks, he finally encouraged himself enough to take a peek around.

The first thing he saw was a chimney a yard away from him, fire sizzling and churning over the small adobe space. He blinked very slowly, his whole face burning with insistence. He had no doubt; his own temperature would sure be one hundred point four degrees Fahrenheit. He trembled in dismay on that soft sofa, sighing hot air.

His gaze was then climbing over those unknown walls, exploring each color and texture around. It was a very particular place.

Before getting into any details, steps began rambling through the room. His heart could only jump, an accelerated trot hitting both his temples. Damn his fever.

He closed his eyes quickly, shrinking under the covers as if sleep still dominated him.

An affable, harsh voice rose in front of him, the audible gait stopping.

"There is no need to pretend being asleep."

There was not indeed, but the kid couldn't find a more appropriate thing to do. He was not ready. Everything was too sudden. However, the moment had come to face this new situation.

Giving up, he slowly let his eyelids flutter open, hands clinging to the fabrics that covered him whole. That way he allowed himself to see the stranger, feeling his heart almost climb up his throat out of emotion.

A lush face greeted him. There stood a thin man with a dashing look. His hair was black, as thick as an equine, and his skin was a glaucous hue. Seemed to be in his thirties. He looked pensive, as if he had just witnessed a magic trick.

"What happened to your...?"

The younger already knew what he was about to ask.

"I was run over years ago," he simply said, his voice coming out shy as he found himself under insistent scrutiny, "and both my eyes are now full of blood."

The man seemed short of breath, trying to approach him with the greatest respect. He was dazzled. Surprise could not fit in his face.

"That's startling," he admitted, suddenly finding it difficult to start a conversation. Stuart felt his chest shiver, face turning more and more incarnated. It's been a while since he last caught someone's attention. Suddenly, some worried words escaped the man. "You don't look very well."

Without warning, he made a hand towards the other's skin, feeling his forehead. It was boiling hot. Then he frowned, ready to go for a thermometer.

"I bet you're pretty sick," he said, that vigorous voice now sounding faint. Then he turned to the chimney, going to stir up the fire.

Stuart raised his head slightly, barely able to think with awake judgment. He felt so shitty, yet so comfortable.

"Thank you for offering me shelter in your home," he said, his tone broken, trying to voice sweetness.

"It's nothing." The man gave him a soft look, about to go through his medicine cabinet. "My name is Murdoc."

Stuart could only smile, showing his neglected teeth with no shame. He had nothing to hide. The other had found him on the street, after all. A few seconds later, he finally whispered, "I'm Stuart."

__________________

"Sit down."

With a thick pillow behind his back, Stuart was able to sit upright on the couch. His whole face was sweaty, not to mention the rest of his body, wet and dirty under the blankets.

He remained silent, looking at his grimy hands. His nails looked spoiled and full of dirt. He could not help but murmur, somewhat blue, "I'm sorry I look so indecent."

Murdoc's heart cringed, feeling incapable of judging him. Without words he took a seat by his side, watching him with empathy. He carefully lowered the collar of the younger's shirt, stained and greasy, to leave his shoulder naked. In seconds he was placing the thermometer under his armpit.

"It's not your fault," he told him. Their breathing and the burning embers softened all silence as the seconds passed, both drawing continuous and silent observations about the other. Murdoc looked at the temperature gotten from his partner after a while. "One hundred point four degrees. It would be good for you to take a bath. I can prepare some tea in the meantime."

Damn. His caretaker was willing to give him so much and so little could he return him. A sad smile was the only thing he could put on, feeling his cheeks burn. He no longer knew if it was because of the fever or the overwhelming sense of cosiness.

"Sure," he said, rubbing his nose with his knuckles lightly. When he got up, his legs were visible to the other's eyes. Murdoc noticed his exaggerated thinness, how he would hide feebly under those dirty rags. A knot in the man's chest made him think. It was more than obvious. He had to prepare a good snack to munch on next to the tea.

Both started walking calmly towards the bathroom, one hand intertwined to another. Stuart finally left the side of the fire to surrender to the warmth of a good washing.

When he opened the door, never skipping good manners, Pot opened his eyes wide. He wanted to express how nice it was there, how spacious the bathtub was. That house enchanted him more and more as he got to know it. However, words escaped to his facility. Murdoc didn't need to listen to him to understand such good mood though. Said man turned on the tap and headed to another room, holding the door behind him as he said, "I left some soap and a towel for you on the sink."

Being left alone now, he suddenly felt a powerful energy run on his very skin. He looked towards the bathtub, removing his terrible garments with speed. Then gave a leap and joined the little bit of water that had accumulated in there, feeling that nice warmth wet his body. The kid lost himself in the way his own white skin gave off opaque drops of dirt, noticing how much grime left his hands after minutes. The foam grew and grew.

When he finished he took the towel and rubbed his no more greasy hair, his original blue glowing under the light of the bathroom. Happiness swallowed him whole. He glanced at the mirror, eyeing how his barely there freckles were even visible now.

All this should do something to his fever. Surely it would have been brought down a bit.

He wanted to hug that man he barely knew, dedicate a song to him in gratitude. Anything! He sure felt more than glad.

__________________

Stuart came out of the bathroom with the towel covering him from the chest below. He tilted his head in search of his fellow. Would he be in the kitchen? Should he look for him? He didn't know the place at all.

When he finally knew where the man was he found himself going through an incredible room. His black eyes flashed in surprise.


	3. Truth

Adjustable mannequins stood in front of his very eyes, a tape measure on each of their shoulders. They were tall enough to reach his head. A lovely magenta predominated around, colouring the walls and openwork jute carpets. It could be a show for anyone.

In a corner, the man who had given him hospitality seemed to spit fervent talk on the phone. He was sitting in front of a large work table flooded in papers with designs on and other colorful materials.

Stuart wanted more than a glimpse, to examine it all! Couldn't resist the urge anymore. Tightening his grip on the towel that covered his whole body, he dared to take a wet step forward. Then another, and another. He hoped not to receive a scold, didn't know what else to do than exploring such room at the moment.

"Let me repeat myself," Murdoc spoke in an overwhelmed tone, exhausted. Answering that many calls so suddenly caused him full displeasure. "I could not assist today because I found someone laying right in the streets."

Swallowing much saliva, the young boy trembled in his place, feeling somewhat intimidated by those words. Even so, they did not stop him. He kept on walking in a shy pace and stopped a meter away from his caretaker, almost clashing against him. Fortunately, he was able to keep himself steady and could observe the things that were scattered all over the place, those that almost made him trip. Markers, chalk and pencils.

"He's not any... He's not any kind of boy," the man said, feeling his own hair in an exasperated gesture. Stuart noticed that he had a cigar between his lips, for smoke was rising and rising around him. "He has impressive black eyes. But it happens that he is weakened by this awful weather."

Feeling a tingling sensation over his body, the kid felt like laughing. He could not help it. Suddenly he was covering his mouth in vain, smiling at the good impression he had made on the older one.

After hearing him, Niccals was finally aware of his presence. He immediately turned to see him, cutting the call by mistake. He clicked his tongue and put away the phone.

"Stuart." His tone was soft. Suddenly he felt somewhat embarrassed, his face becoming incarnate. That boy should not be there, seeing his most intimate elements for work. "What are you doing here? Your fever could get worse, walking around naked."

The boy was filled with grief, looking at him in big regret. "I-I'm sorry. I just came out of the bathroom."

Then Murdoc noticed some water droplets fell from that drenched hair, the towel serving as mere shield against the cold. He also noted that his skin, previously covered on dirt, now looked as white as cotton, intact. He blinked very slowly, knowing there was nothing more and nothing less than a treasure in front of him. Sighing, he stood up.

The bluehead blinked in contemplation, still curious about everything that surrounded him. Murdoc knew he should explain.

"This is where I work."

Opening his eyes wide, Pot almost grabbed him by the shoulders in surprise. Obviously he restrained himself and murmured calmly, "Sir, are you a designer?"

To that question Murdoc did not avoid smiling, encouraged by the other's curiosity. "Yes. I am a designer indeed."

Stuart was amazed, more incredulous than ever. Hugging himself his teeth began to chatter slightly. Looking behind the older, he could still see those excellent drawings on the table. Taking them in his hands was his only wish at the moment. Words escaped him suddenly. "That's a magnificent job. Not everyone has the skills needed."

Murdoc, worried about the other's state, encouraged him to move out of there and go back to the guest room. He did not want the cold to get worse, much less the fever. With obedience Pot followed his step.

They got there, the sofa covered in new sheets and bedspreads. The older had changed them now that Stuart was bathed, whose heart was dancing in appreciation as he even saw a spare of clean clothes laying tidy at his feet.

"Get dressed," the man offered, lifting the garments and handing them to him under his scrutiny. "Here you have leggings and a nightgown that have never fit me."

Seeing him with tender eyes, the young man nodded, accepting them. Murdoc left in seconds, leaving him at his own mercy.

The kid silently left the towel aside, putting on everything with quick hands. His attention went to the fireplace, getting lost in its flames for the umpteenth time.

Already dressed, he took the towel and started rubbing it against his hair, which he hadn't got cut in a long time. It reached up to his shoulders, almost. He remembered when he used to have it always well cut in a military style.

His caretaker joined him through the door then, shooing memories away. The man kept quiet, holding a tea set on a nice-looking tray. Such details were breath-taking.

The bluehead straightened between the covers to get well seated. The light tray was placed on his lap, to which he thanked immediately. His lips lowered to the steaming cup, frowning at the bitter taste.

"You should add some sugar," Murdoc said, pointing at one little ceramic pot with an amused smile.

Stuart thus prepared his tea to his own liking, taking several cookies from the small jar that was also there. He was so pleased, observing the other meticulously whenever the opportunity came. The older stood upright, looking through the curtains of the window to check for a sudden snowfall.

"As I was saying not long ago," the kid said after a sip of the infusion, "your profession is beyond wonderful."

The dark-haired man turned to see him. He savored those words, feeling drawn to the dialogue as well.

"I can see that my job has caught your attention," he said, studying the streaks of the floor.

A man of few words he was. Seemed to be a fairly reserved person too, Stuart observed.

"Indeed. Art is a great mystery to me," he muttered, playing with the sheets that covered him up to the waist. There were so many things back in that workroom. It was amazing. "It would be fascinating to know more about your occupation. Do you create clothing for public figures?"

To the question of childish tone, he let out a tiny laugh. Stuart heard him in awe, trying to appease his inner excitement. He did not want to look as silly as before, when found in a fainted state.

"Some, yes." After answering, he aimed his gaze intently at the boy. He observed him well, taking note of that pale silhouette and great peculiarity. How come it was possible that such a person could be in his house right now, having tea on his sofa in the middle of the afternoon? Had he gone crazy? But the kid was so...

"Beautiful."

It was too late when he noticed that he had said it out loud.

The young beggar raised his eyes, some crumbs falling from his small mouth. He was traversed by confusion. Had he listened well?

"Excuse me?" He was encouraged to ask, really lost in the conversation.

Murdoc did not know whether to dismiss his own slip or restate it. He swallowed, resuming the dialogue. "I think you are beautiful."

An overwhelming silence shut the mouth of both men, those wandering with their eyes in awkward thoughts.

Stuart's head was in the clouds. Was that true? Did he seem beautiful to whom he faced? Frustrated, he frowned as he struggled against his low self-esteem.

What did he have to lose?

"I am flattered," he said, voice spun with utmost frailty. It was hard for him to believe what he had heard. He did not want to cry, of course not. "I have not received such compliment for some time."

The listener's face fell at the small confession, remaining silent. He went very calmly to his guest, standing in front of the sofa. Then gave the younger a gentle glance, his chest hurting every second. Knowing that he could not undo that true compliment, no more admiration was contained.

He silently lifted a hand to that still slightly damp blue mane. The boy watched him closely, feeling a strand of his own hair being examined with great care.

"I'm impressed by your dye choice," the designer declared, looking really abstracted. He wanted to know what kind of chemicals were used to achieve that splendid ciel color. The poor boy, even living in the middle of the streets, dared to show off his own creative fad. And it couldn't suit him any better.

Wanting to roll his eyes, Pot smiled, saying, "Believe it or not, it's natural."

The humorous and incredulous expression he got was immediate. But he would make an effort to make himself believed.

He wanted to befriend that interesting man.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I've originally posted this on Wattpad and in spanish, my native language. Tried translating it and all. Hope you enjoy and if you wanna point out any mistakes, please do. Have a good day!


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